


The Moon and the Stars (Were Gifts You Gave)

by Draco_sollicitus



Series: Short but Sometimes Sweet: Damerey Collection [10]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Arranged Marriage AU, F/M, Feels, Historical AU, Meeting on Wedding Day, Mild Fluff, Poe is King of Spain, Rey is Princess of England, Royalty AU, Smut, definitely not historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-05-01 10:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14518845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: King Poe of Spain does not meet his betrothed until their wedding day. His father had abdicated hastily, and a marriage needed to be performed to secure the future of the Dameron household; the princess of England, separated from the line of succession as she was, but still of an appropriate age and a beloved member of the royal family, was a logical choice.He does not know what to expect of Renata, but he hopes for the best.Even with his hope that they will at least get along and become friends in the face of their necessitated union, Poe never could have imagined falling in love with the woman meant to be his wife; but, when he begins to know Renata and feels the stars themselves fall into alignment, he realizes just how lucky his marriage really was.





	1. The Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to [Wrinkled_Fabric](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrinkled_Fabric) who requested an Arranged Marriage AU :)
> 
> Warnings for this particular chapter: minor self-injury (in the end notes, explained, if you need to know what it is before it shows up!), discussions of consent, and masturbation with an audience/married sexy times ;)

The first time Poe sees his wife, she walks down the aisle of the palace’s cathedral towards him.

Renata, princess of England, had been promised to him in a hasty betrothal. They had exchanged letters of introduction – her penmanship was admirable, and her tone reserved – but given the rapid decline of Kes, Poe’s father and patriarch of the Dameron line, the abdication had been abrupt, and Poe had matters of state to attend to. Relations with England needed to be maintained in light of wars with France and the threats from the northern seas; a marriage between members of both royal families was advantageous for all parties.

The two months they were betrothed, Poe had spent mostly in council meetings – and, in his free time, he had brushed up on his English. Just because they lacked communication during their engagement did not mean their marriage needed to continue in such a fashion. Poe wants a companion, not a decoration, and he does not know what to anticipate while he stands nervously with the priest, a crown he still does not care for nestled on his curls.

The processional hymn sounds, and he gazes down the aisle. Renata, princess and beloved niece of King Han of England, is escorted by the Crown Prince Benjamin, a hulking man with a dour face. He has his cousin’s arm tucked into his large one, and Poe is amused that the man scowls at him, the King of Spain, so freely. Benjamin is a terrifying large man, albeit a handsome one, and Renata is…

Renata is –

She is uncommonly pretty. He means that in several ways: she does not have the soft curves of most fashionable women, but her beauty remains undeniable, unique. Her cheekbones are high and sharp, and her skin is lightly freckled. Poe admires the spots while she is still five feet away from him, her eyes lowered while her cousin kisses her affectionately on the cheek. She looks up at Benjamin at the last moment, and Poe swears she looks beseechingly at him. His massive hand comes to cup her chin, reassuringly, and an unspoken conversation passes between the two before Benjamin takes her hand and places it in Poe’s.

He wears gloves for the ceremony, as does she, and he wishes it were different. He wants to feel her skin next to his – he supposes he will, soon enough, and he gives his betrothed a small smile while the priest begins to talk.

She looks stoic, but he mouths, “Hello,” at her, winking cheerfully when she looks surprised at his improper behavior (Poe has been admonished in church many times; he fails to see why today should be any different), and then she mouths, “Hello,” back, and that is all they have time for before the priest begins to move through the Mass in earnest.

Their kiss when the priest announces that they are wed in the eyes of God is chaste, remote, but it is met with thunderous applause from the gathered assembly regardless. Poe holds his bride’s hand, Renata shining under the stained glass with a circlet of silver on her brown hair; he tries not to notice the small tear that escapes her beautiful hazel eyes.

***

That night, standing before their chambers still dressed in his clothes from the ceremony (but minus the crown, thank the Lord), Poe knocks on the door and enters, a hopeful anticipation in his heart.

That hope is immediately slain by the sight of his wife, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching her dressing gown to her slender body.

“What is wrong?” Poe demands, crossing into the chamber anxiously. “Has something – have you been hurt? Are you in pain?”

“No,” Renata shakes her head, furiously. “No, I am sorry, forgive me, these are the tears of a girl, and you have married a woman. I am sorry. Give me leave to collect myself, and you shall find me a more suitable companion.” She wipes her tears with a harsh hand, but more quickly take their place.

“Give you leave –” Poe’s mind quickly calculates her intention. English is a tricky language, and he wishes to understand her fully. “You are not … ready? For this?” He gestures between them, nervously, not wanting to upset her, not knowing a word for what happens between man and wife that is not hopelessly crass.

“No,” Renata shakes her head miserably but smiles. “But it is no matter. Do you need me to sit on the bed, my lord?” She moves quickly to the bed and fidgets with the sleeves of her gown, looking lost and scared.

“No,” Poe says hastily. “No, Renata, dear God, I would not lay with an unwilling partner.”

“I am willing,” she protests. “I am just – “ she shakes her head, ashamed. “Afraid.”

“Do not be afraid of me,” Poe begs her. “Please. I will not touch you when you are afraid. We will not consummate until you are ready.”

“They will ask,” Renata weeps again, into her hands. “They will try to discern whether it was consummated. I must give you an heir.’

“No,” Poe shakes his head, because God, they do need to produce an heir, but it does not have to be right away, not when he is healthy, and his Uncle Cassian is healthy, and his wife Jyn, and their own children. Then, he swears when he realizes what she means by ‘discern.’

Poe strides over to his effects and pulls out his ceremonial dagger. Renata flinches away from him when he walks up to her, and Poe holds the blade behind his back, his other hand reached out to her in supplication. “No,” he says, wildly. “No, no, no, my Queen, this is not for… no. Here.” Poe wrenches back the covers of the large bed – the large, monstrous, ornate bed, and in truth, he is afraid of it too – and rolls up a sleeve of his shirt. He smiles at Renata, trying to relay his sympathy for her and her terror in this moment, and then raises the dagger. Before he can think twice about it, he slashes the blade across his forearm. _It is not so deep to need to be bound_ , he thinks quietly, _not so deep to even scar terribly_ , as the blood wells. _Better me than her._  

“What are you doing?” Renata stumbles forward, hands outstretched. “My lord, what are you –”

Enough blood has risen now that he can let several drops fall onto the sheets. He smears some of it effectively, in a random pattern that could suggest passionate movement. Then, he wipes the dagger and some of the blood on his arm on a handkerchief.

He throws the dagger to his side and smiles at Rey. “There,” he says, softly. “They will not be able to discern the truth, now.” Her eyes are wide, and deeply sad, and Poe’s heart breaks for her, this English dove who has come so far, has sacrificed so much for their countries.

She does something very strange, then.

Renata goes to the washroom in the corner of the chambers and returns with a bowl of clean water and cloths. She sits on the bed intended to be theirs, and holds her hand out patiently. Poe smiles at her and walks over. “Let me clean that for you,” she whispers.

“Thank you, Renata,” Poe murmurs, staring down at her lovely face, tense in concentration.

“Rey,” she whispers, wiping at the blood lightly, her hands soft and slightly cool against his own heated skin. He frets that his skin is not soft enough for her to touch – an odd idea, and certainly a fear he has never held before.

“¿ _Perd_ _ón_?” Poe lapses briefly, but it is close enough to the word in her language that she understands.

“My name is Rey,” his wife smiles at him, briefly, a flash of sunlight in their darkened bed chamber. Then, haltingly: “ _Me llamo_ Rey.” It almost sounds like a question in her mouth.

His grin at her brave attempt makes her own smile widen. “Very good,” he praises her, cupping her face in his hand gently, thrilled when she does not pull away. She is slim, and her features are as delicate as a flower, but he swears he feels a distant thrum of power, a thrill of some sort of energy, pass between them. This contact, though technically less romantic in theory than the kiss that sealed their union before God, feels oddly intimate. “ _Muy bien_ , Rey.”

“ _Gracias,_ ” she whispers, finishing her task of cleaning the blood from his arm. A wound not much bigger than a scratch remains, and Rey uses a clean cloth to bind it tenderly. “There, that should do it.”

“You would make an excellent healer, Rey,” Poe compliments her smiling.

“I would have liked to have been a healer,” Rey admits. “My own parents – they died from a fever when I was but six years old.” Poe remembers attending the funeral of Luke and Mara, Duke and Duchess of Skywalk, when he was fourteen. “It was agony to have to watch them suffer. I often thought that I should like to help the sick and the poor, until I realized that I was bound for a different fate.”

She looks unbearably sad, and Poe hates the fact that this marriage was not her own idea, nor her preference. “I sometimes visit nearby villages to determine how they live, their needs,” Poe tells her, coming to sit next to her on the bed, a healthy space remaining between them so he does not alarm her. “Would you like to join me on some of those visits?”

“Yes,” Rey nods, eagerly, a real, full smile on her face. It is like staring into the sun, and Poe looks down at his knees so he is not blinded. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

He looks back up at her shyly and smiles, feeling much like the young boy he once was, foolish and nervous in the ways of love. Poe has never been in love, though, merely acted out the motions of it, wooed women of court, led some into bed. He regrets every encounter now; strangely, he wishes to be on the same page as his wife. This process should be unique to them, they should be matched in experience.

She does not know of his previous fornication, so he does not tell her, but he does have a revelation in the middle of the peaceful quiet that has descended over them.

“My dear,” Poe coughs, awkwardly. _My dear_ sounds too much like a formality in English. He shall have to find another endearment, then. “My Queen, I must ask you to … leave the chambers, briefly.”

“Of course, my lord,” Rey rises from the bed, but then turns and fixes him with a strange look. “May I ask why?” _She is curious,_ Poe muses. _I like that._

Despite his happiness at her curiosity, he still blushes. “Well,” he shifts nervously. “It is not enough for there to be blood, my dove.” _That’s better than my dear, but it still is not right._ “There should be…” Poe gestures with his hands, awkwardly, towards the sheets. “Evidence? Of…pleasure?”

Rey turns red as well, and he breathes, thanking God that she does not need a further explanation. “Oh,” she says faintly. “Yes, Queen Leia told me as much.”

“Yes,” Poe feels like he has been caught doing something worthy of censure, but he knows he is correct regarding the necessity of at least his own pleasure upon the bedsheets. Someone will be by to collect them in the morn – a hateful idea, honestly, but a tradition – and he is suddenly glad to spare her the reality of such a union, one she so clearly does not want.

Rey walks to the door, and then turns around, chewing her lip. “Would it – no. My apologies, my lord,” she curtsies, and Poe frowns.

“Do not feel the need to edit yourself when we are in private, my queen,” he says gently. “I do not mean to rule over you while I rule over the country. You are not a subject.” Rey nods, shyly smiling at him, and it is worth more than all the jewels in the treasury. “What did you wish to ask me?”

“Could I….watch?” Rey whispers so quietly, he is sure he misheard her. But then, she keeps speaking and he knows he was right. “I do not know anything of men, my lord, and when we do lie together, I should like to know what I am…facing.”

 _She must be terrified of me to think of sex as such a burden,_ Poe wonders, and then he kicks himself internally. _Not all women marry men with gentle hearts,_ he scolds himself. _Especially in the royal class. If she is curious, show her, help her. You do not wish to bed someone who is not entirely your equal. It would not be fair to her._

He nods and rises from the bed. He attempts a deep, steadying breath, but the nerves in his stomach match closely his nerves from the night he lost his virginity, some twelve years prior. “If you grow uncomfortable, merely tell me to stop so you can leave the room, Rey,” Poe says, and his wife nods in understanding.

Poe slowly undresses, waiting for her to ask him to stop, but instead, she sits on the footstool across from the bed and stares at him, face flushed and eyes wide. She is so very beautiful, this Englishwoman, his wife (his _wife,_ he remembers with a groan), that the motions of his undressing become not a chore, not a necessity, but something erotic and new.

When he goes to unfasten his pants, shirt already removed and cast aside, he realizes with another groan that he is already hard.

“What are you doing?” She asks, sweetly, curiously, as he goes to get some of the oil – provided for their consummation, he realizes with a flare of heat, not that they will use it for that purpose.

“It works better with some wetness,” Poe explains, awkwardly. His English is good, he knows, but there are things that he’s more comfortable saying in Spanish.

“So, you would use that…on me?” Rey’s eyes grow impossibly wider.

“It’s meant to help,” Poe smiles at her, trying to ignore the brush of his drawers against his erection. “Yes, I would most likely use this on you the first time, at least. To help with the,” Poe grits his teeth and removes his drawers, letting his pants pool around his feet, “stretch?” Is that the word for it English? He has half a mind to ask Rey, but her attention is now entirely diverted. Her face flames red, and her eyes are comically wide.

“That?” Rey whispers. “ _That_ is to go inside me? Will it fit?”

She must be so very afraid, Poe wonders. She must be so very small, his slender, tiny dove. How will he fit indeed? The idea makes him swell all the more, but at the same time, he winces for her future discomfort, the future pain he may bring to her.

Rey does not look worried though, upon closer inspection. Rather, her lip is caught between her teeth, and she slowly raises her eyes from his leaking member, up his body, to his face. He stares back at her, their eyes locked in an intimate embrace, and without thinking, his hand grips the base of his cock. He hisses at the warmth of his hand, the soothing slipperiness of the oil, and Rey gasps at the same time.

“You can look,” Poe murmurs, eyes slipping shut against the pleasure. He strokes himself calmly, and then opens his eyes so he can lift a knee onto the bed. This will not take long, he knows. Poe has had intimate relations with women in the past, to be sure, but this feels more intimate than any of those experiences. He is not even touching Rey, but he feels flayed alive for her, exposed and vulnerable and so very ready to climax already.

“May I?” His Rey’s soft voice interrupts, and he opens his eyes, realizing she has drawn closer, standing at the foot of the bed. “May I try?”

“Yes,” Poe groans, beckoning her forward with the hand free of oil. “Yes, sweet Rey, you may.” Rey takes his hand, and he guides it to his member, letting her rest her palm against his stomach while she deliberates her next move. He contents himself with continuing his strokes, more lazily now that she is so close – her proximity alone feels better than anything he has ever done, and he does not know why, he has only just met this woman – while she studies his movements, a small line between her eyebrows as she considers it.

Then, she nods, and her hand slips lower. “Show me?” Rey asks, her eyes drifting up to lock with his once more. Her breath catches when his hand takes hers, and he moves with her to grip his cock near the base. Poe moans at the feeling of both their hands moving over him, and his eyes keep threatening to flutter shut, but he wants to keep them open, wants to watch Rey’s reaction to this, to her bringing him such pleasure. And it is _agony,_ the knowledge that she touches him, and he is bare to her, and all he wants to do is lose himself in her, he wants to lay his sweet wife out on the bed and kiss every inch of her, he wants to see what sounds she makes when his tongue is inside her, his fingers, his cock.

But, she has not given him permission to touch her, so he does not tell her these things, not wanting to scare her. Rey’s eyes flicker down to where their hands work together every few seconds, but then she returns her gaze to meet his eyes, and Poe feels an undeniable fire building in his gut. His climax is almost unstoppable now, so he warns her.

“Rey,” he gasps, breath coming more shallow now, “Rey, my dove, I am going to –”

“Oh,” Rey blushes, but moves out of the way slightly, her hand releasing him at the same time he comes with a shout of her name. He works himself through it, and to his intense surprise, Rey picks up his other hand halfway through his peak, and brings it to her lips, kissing his knuckles gently, her eyes now averted to the floor.

Poe murmurs a length of profanity in his native tongue, words he would blush to say in English to the princess, and he looks at her lips longingly. She sees where his attention has drifted, and she smiles sweetly at him. “Would you kiss me?” She asks, and Poe worries for a brief moment that she only asks in the hopes of pleasing him.

He forgets his concern though when he obliges, sinking into the kiss, clutching his wife to his naked body.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “ _Lo siento,_ I have forgotten myself.” He strides to his belongings, laid out by a servant, and collects a nightshirt. He pulls it over his head, and then returns to his wife.

“That was…” Rey’s cheeks are still flushed, and she bites her lower lip between her even, white teeth. Poe tries not to stare, but he has always been a weak man. “Interesting.”

“Glad I could interest you,” Poe teases her lightly, but she smiles at him, looking less afraid than she has all night. It is what inspires him to ask, awkwardly, “Would you – could I hold you? While we sleep?”

“Just sleep?” Rey asks, worry flitting over her face again.

“Just sleep,” Poe confirms, walking to the bed to pull the soiled sheet off, making a clean space for her to lie down.

“I would like that,” Rey answers readily, removing her outer robe so she wears only her own nightgown. Poe climbs onto the bed and lies on his side facing the window. He pats the mattress next to his body, and Rey slides into place, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling.

“Here,” Poe murmurs, raising his hand slowly to rest on her hip. “Turn this way, my dove.” Rey follows his guidance and moves so she lies on her own side, facing the same direction as Poe. “May I?” He asks, his arm hovering over her body. Rey nods once, firmly, and Poe wraps his arm around her, resisiting the urge to pull her in close to himself, to bury his face in her sweet smelling hair.

“Goodnight, my dove,” Poe yawns, feeling at peace with his wife lying next to him. She is a stranger, but he will get to know her, and the thought is as comforting as it is thrilling.

“Goodnight, my king,” Rey answers.

He falls asleep before he can ask her to call him Poe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning note: Poe cuts his arm to draw enough blood to make others think Rey has lost her virginity.


	2. A Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey reflects on her husband;
> 
>  
> 
> Poe gets to know his wife a little better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rey POV and Poe POV
> 
> POV change marked by **  
> Time jump marked by ***
> 
> Y'all can assume that the warnings are all for good old fashioned arranged marriage sex with enthusiastic consent.

Rey awakens the morning after her wedding, not to the sounds of birds or rustling leaves, but heavy, guttural snoring.

Her husband, the King of Spain, snores.

Like a drunken bear.

Rey snorts quietly, an unladylike noise – her father, Luke, had spoilt her when she was a child by indulging her wild ways, and her uncle Han, very much another father to her, had merely continued the tradition and even allowed her to swordfight – and she turns carefully to look at her formidable spouse in the early light.

Poe is not so formidable, though. His body is muscular, and something regarding his manner of walking and carriage informs her that he would be handy in a fight – and, combined with the intelligent gleam in his eye, he certainly matches the image of the man she had heard stories of, back when he was a prince and warrior, and she a princess – but he is not terrifying in the least. Rather, he is surprisingly kind and gentle.

She had been so sure last night would end in agony and pain and humiliation (the queen had told her that, of course, not all men were cruel, her uncle Han certainly was not cruel, but she had been warned nonetheless because a princess of England must always be prepared), but Poe had been so kind to her in her distress. He had been patient and sweet and had not made her feel wanton or unladylike when she expressed a desire to see how he brought himself pleasure.

Rey blushes, furiously, at the memory –at the visualization of her husband bent slightly forward, hand working on his … his _cock_ (and she can call it a cock now, for Christ’s sake, she is no longer a child, this is her husband, and she will be well acquainted with his body before long), and also the auditory memory of his groan of ecstasy when he had released his pleasure onto their bed, the very bed she lies on.

Such a sound has never before graced her ears; Rey thinks she would very much like to hear it again.

She wonders if she is capable of making such a sound, and if her husband would be so kind as to help her discover the ability.

“Poe,” she mouths, enjoying the syllable. He has called her _Rey,_ and he has insisted to her more than once that he views her as an equal, but she still hesitates in the familiarity. He is the King, after all, and she a consort, a lesser princess of England.

For a brief, petty moment, Rey wonders if he had even seen a picture of her before agreeing to the wedding; did he even want _her_ at all?

The weight of his cock in her hand last night assures her that her husband does not find her wanting in that respect; Rey blushes in half-happiness, half-embarrassment at the thought, and when Poe’s snoring abruptly stops, and his eyelids twitch, she realizes he is about to exit his slumber. She squeezes her eyes shut and curves slightly towards him, her hands drawn up to her chin so she becomes a small, impenetrable ball.

King Poe was kind last night; he might not be so patient in the morning. She forces her breathing to remain calm – she will remain calm, she must remain calm – and she curses herself for her fear. If she were worried, she could have left the chamber last night after he fell asleep so quickly, she could have left at any point in the night, and not turned her back to him, leaving herself at his mercy.

She hears a small yawn and the mattress underneath her shifts. There is the brush of lips on her hair, and Rey forces herself not to tense in anxiety.

“ _Buenos días, paloma,_ ” he murmurs. The mattress dips briefly and then returns to normalcy: the king has left their bed, and when Rey cracks her eyes open, she sees her husband stretching in the sunlight streaming through the window, his dark brown, almost black curls, shining luxuriously as his hands brace against the small of his back and he bends backwards. When he straightens back out, he shakes his hair out carefully and stands in profile as he takes off his dressing gown and stands in the nude while he washes his face. Rey blushes – his member is once again erect – and squeezes her eyes shut, but not before she sees a decent amount of the king’s body.

Her husband is very handsome. Very, very handsome – Rey has been lucky, indeed, to marry a gentle, handsome man.

Perhaps marriage is not so terrifying after all.

**

They have been married for a month when Poe sees his wife’s face light with joy while servants bring flowers into the great hall ahead of a banquet.

“Do you like them?” Poe asks her, examining her face with intense scrutiny. She is so heartbreakingly lovely.

“Yes,” she breathes, walking towards a collection of the blooms, eyes wide in fascination. “Yes, I do.” Her slender fingers reach out to trace a petal, and when she looks over her shoulder and sees him staring at her, she snatches them back. “I am sorry,” she murmurs, gathering her skirts. “I will get out of your way, now.” Rey strides out of the hall, quickly, head bent and neck reddened.

Poe ponders what to do with this new information, and his wife’s continued shyness. Then, it comes to him quite easily.

The next day, he invites her to walk with him around the grounds of the palace. They still share a bed, but he usually sleeps on top of the covers, and Rey under. They move together in their sleep, and he often wakes up pressed against his wife – he begs God and his queen for forgiveness before rolling away or walking to the washroom to take care of his body’s natural reaction to her proximity. She has not touched him since their wedding night, and he has not asked her to. He will wait for her to be ready.

And if she is never ready, well. He will understand.

While they walk around the grounds, Poe tries to engage her in conversation, and her answers are polite, but short. The accompanying smiles that brighten her answers gives him hope. They stop outside an ornate gate set into the inner wall of the palace’s grounds.

“I’d like to show you something,” Poe says to her, softly. Rey looks at him curiously, and he pushes the gate open.

They walk into a round garden, a large space with sloping grass and terraced levels of flowers and bushes and small trees.

“This is –” Rey walks in, staring at the garden in wonder. “I did not know there was this much green in the whole world.” Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, and she spins in a circle, laughing lightly.

Her laugh is incandescent, and fills him to the brim with a feeling akin to a bubble expanding.

“It pleases you?” Poe asks, hopefully.

“Very much,” Rey nods and smiles at him more shyly. She looks reserved once again, and that will not do.

“It is called _El Anillo,_ or the ring,” Poe tells her, smiling. “It was my mother’s sanctuary, and now it is yours.”

“Truly?” Rey asks, freezing, the only movement on her form coming from the breeze lifting the soft hairs that have escaped her braid. “Truly – you would give this to me?”

“It was meant for a queen,” Poe says. _It was meant for the woman I love._

He watches, overjoyed, as his wife explores the garden, wandering through the various tiers and types of plant life, looking more and more ecstatic with every step. When she stills for more than ten seconds, he walks to her side and looks at a flowerbed that has caught her attention.  

“We do not have these in England,” Rey breathes, kneeling down to examine the brightly colored flowers. “They are beautiful.”

“They are.” Poe smiles at his wife. “A fitting gift for a beautiful woman.”

Rey blushes when she looks up from the blossoms, and then she rises and walks demurely to his side. “I have never been given such a gift,” she murmurs, cheeks still aflame. She leans in and kisses his cheek. “Thank you, Poe.”

Poe blushes in turn, then.

It is the first time his wife has called him by his first name; he finds he rather likes his name better when it is said in her voice.

***

They visit a series of villages in the second month of their marriage, waving and greeting the subjects from the carriage, or the steps of halls, or sometimes in the street if enough of the guard is present. Poe wears a sword on his hip, a tradition that he used to scoff at, never feeling ill at ease in public when he was a prince. But now he has something precious to lose, and she stands at his side, and he knows he would die on a sword happily if it meant keeping her safe.

They are in a small village, on the last day of their journey, speaking with the aristocratic members of the village, when the worst happens.

Rey vanishes from his sight.

He speaks with a lower lord one moment, and then he turns to ask his wife if she requires rest – it must be overwhelming to have so many speak to her and around her in Spanish at once – and she is not there.

" _¿Dónde está la reina?”_ Poe demands of a nearby guardsman. _“_ _¿_ _Dónde está mi esposa?_ ”

The guardsman shakes his head, looking terrified, and Poe shoves through the circle of his men until he is free. Where is Rey? Oh God, where is she.

He ignores the shouts of the men behind him and sprints in a random direction. He runs for thirty seconds when he hears it.

The laugh of his wife.

He turns a corner and finds her, sitting with a crown of flowers on her head, amongst a group of children. They range in age from three to ten, and Rey has the smallest of the children on her lap. They speak to her in Spanish, and she smiles at them sweetly, laughing when they pull at her braid, and poking them back when they touch her nose.

It is too much; the fear of having lost her colliding so suddenly with the strange feeling of watching her joyful reaction to children.

He wants.

Oh, he wants –

“My queen,” he says, loudly, striding towards her. Rey looks up, startled, and the children freeze in their games around her. Poe looks around the square, and realizes that they are outside a collapsing house, overrun with vines. Two large children stand in the doorway, perhaps sixteen years old, and all present stare at him in a mixture of awe, horror, and respect.

All except the child on Rey’s lap, that is. “Paaa?” he squawks, reaching up and grabbing at Poe greedily.

Rey takes his hand and lowers it, blushing and shaking her head when the boy looks at her. That will not do. Poe walks forward and picks the child up, off his wife’s lap.

“Hello, sire,” he says cheerfully, smiling at the boy. The orphan, he realizes. These children are orphans. He makes a note to send resources and funds to them as soon as they return to the castle and he has access to the treasury. Rey stands, brushing off her skirts, and the oldest children nudge the smaller ones, and they bow awkwardly. The small boy in Poe’s arms could not care that he is in the presence of royalty, and tugs on Poe’s beard rather viciously. There’s a squeak of terror from the oldest girl, and even Rey looks grey-faced in anxiety.

That will not do, either.

“Mine,” Poe informs the child sternly, tugging on his beard. As he tugs, he sticks his tongue out, as if the tugging had caused his tongue to pop out. He does it again for emphasis. “My beard.”

The boy pulls again, laughing riotously, and Poe laughs too.

“Your Majesty,” the oldest boy says, bowing to him. “May I?” He takes the boy and stumbles away, and Poe frowns after him. Does he appear so ferocious that they worry he would harm a child for being a child? Perhaps it is the way he sprinted towards them, shouting for his wife down the street. Perhaps.

Rey smiles at him nervously.

“My queen,” he says to her, walking forward. “Come.” He holds out his elbow, and she takes it. They leave the courtyard together, and return to the steps of the hall.

“I am sorry,” Rey whispers. “I am so sorry.”

“Do not be sorry,” Poe tells her, frowning. “But perhaps you could tell me what made you want to wander away? You frightened me.”

She looks miserable, then. “You were talking to everyone, and I saw them playing down the street. A child fell, so I went to help them, and then they wanted me to meet their friends.”

Poe nods, but she keeps talking. This is the most his wife has spoken in his presence at one time in the entirety of their marriage, so he listens. “I love children,” she tells him, and his heart swells, because maybe she wants --- she would want what he wants, too – “I lost my parents when I was very young,” Rey continues. “And I wake up terrified most nights, thinking of what would have happened if I had not the luck of being born into royalty. To lose one’s parents is a cruelty, and I was lucky enough to still have family and security. They were not so lucky.” Poe does not speak, but merely stares at his wife, his most perfect – what is the word in English? It is _rayo del sol_ in his own tongue, a remarkable irony, given that her own name is Rey – sunbeam. That is the word. His wife is a sunbeam, a drop of the stars come to shine in his life, to illuminate corners of the world he did not know of until she revealed them.

“I am sorry,” Rey murmurs, looking chagrined. She misinterprets his silence, then. “I did not mean to frighten you, nor anger you. Please forgive me, my king.”

That will not do. Poe steps forward and ducks his finger under her chin. He should not touch his wife so freely in public, he knows, not in sight of so many commoners, but he does not care for propriety. He must assure her, now, physically: “I could never be angered with you,” Poe tells her, and he lifts her chin so she meets his eyes. “You did frighten me, but only because you have changed my life so thoroughly, I would despair if anything were to happen to you. And please, do not defer to me in such a way. You are my equal, my own queen. You need not fear me, _querida._ ”

“Querida?” Rey tests the word out, smiling, and Poe lets them stay in their small, forgotten corner of the world a moment longer.

“It means –” Poe waves his hand around ineffectually, trying to recall the word. “Darling. Or I suppose sweetheart. It means you are my sweetheart.”

“Oh.” Rey blushes. “So I would call you querida as well, then?”

“No,” Poe laughs, pleased that she thinks of him as sweet. “You would call me _querido._ ”

“Your father says I should call you _loco,_ ” Rey smiles tentatively. “Does that mean my dear?”

Poe through his head back and laughs. “No, but it is what my mother, God rest her soul, called her husband.”

Later, when they ride back to the castle, Rey sits on his side of the carriage, and rests her head on his shoulder. She falls asleep after a half hour, and Poe looks down at her frequently, smiling with an intense, quiet joy that his wife seems less afraid of him than ever. Perhaps she starts to see him as a friend, an ally?

But oh, how he sees her:

 _Diosa_.

_Perfecta, bonita, preciosa, bella –_

He loves her, he knows. Poe knows it is natural for him to love his wife, it is the order of things – man takes wife, man loves wife - but this. He did not expect this, this passion, this fervor, this devotion. She is his life, now, his existence. The kingdom means nothing, so long as she smiles at him, his crown could be ash, so long as she speaks to him, he would trade all of the riches and powers of Spain for her to stay curled into his side forever.

_Alma, vida, amor._

_Rey._

***

A few weeks later, he has grown more accustomed to waking up with his wife curled around his body. The night they had returned from their journey, she had woken up sobbing, and asked him to hold her. He had obliged, all too happily, and now some nights, they even fall asleep with his arms around her.

They have been married almost three and a half months when his wife surprises him, once again.

A fire burns in the corner of their chambers, illuminating the room with a warm, orange light, and Poe feels peaceful and at ease as he prepares for bed, wearing only his nightshirt. He had changed in the washroom, and when he walks out towards the central room of their chambers, he sees Rey standing near their bed, nervously.

“There is something I wish to talk to you about,” she says, biting her lip. “Well, really, I want to ask you something.”

“Anything,” Poe reminds her. “You can talk to me about anything, ask me anything.”

His wife, his beautiful, funny, kind wife, shrugs out of her dressing gown, and lets it pool at her feet. She holds her hands at her side and regards Poe with large eyes.

“Touch me?” she asks, shyly. “Please?”

“ _Est_ _ás lista?”_ Poe breathes, without realizing that he’s lapsed into Spanish. It takes his entire focus to keep his eyes on her face, to not let them stray downward until she has given him full permission. “Are you ready, darling? Truly?”

“ _Estoy lista_ ,” Rey answers, blushing at her use of his language, and not at her nakedness. Her bravery makes him smile, and he walks over to her with joy in his step.

“Who taught you Spanish?” He asks, curiously.

“ _Tu papa_ ,” Rey answers, slowly, the vowels a little thick on her tongue, not that he cares. His wife is incredible, he knows, unbelievable, fantastic, charming. Perfect. “ _Kes me enseñó. Hemos estudiando por tres meses_.”

“You are learning Spanish for me?” Poe breathes, reaching out at last for her. Rey does not flinch away from his hands like she had on their wedding night, but he only reaches out to frame her face. He strokes both thumbs over her high cheekbones.

“I wanted to surprise you,” and God above, she did, “But yes, I am learning Spanish. For both of us,” Rey tells him, smiling. “If I am to be your Queen, I should do my best for the country and its culture.”

“I do not deserve you,” Poe whispers. “And now you wish for me to touch you?”

Rey covers one of his hands with her own, and pulls lightly, guiding his hand downward until it rests on a small, pert breast. Poe takes a deep, shuddering breath, and allows his gaze to travel down his wife’s body.

Rey is beautiful, heartbreakingly so. Her hips flare out from her small waist, narrow still, but powerful. Long legs with a fine layer of muscle, and her breasts – small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, but lovely and flushed, nipples pink and hard from the cool air of their room. Poe’s hand squeezes compulsively around the breast in his hand, and Rey gasps, eyes slightly wide from the feeling. “That,” she says. “That feels very nice.”

“Does it?” Poe asks, smiling, bringing his other hand up to cup the breast’s twin. “You are so beautiful, my love.”

“Thank you,” Rey makes a small noise in her throat, brow furrowed. How have they not done this before? Poe feels such joy at the weight in his hand, the noises it pulls from his wife.

“I would like to try something,” he says. “If you would be – accepting? Of it?”

“Yes,” Rey nods. “I trust you, Poe.”

That means more than anything in the world – this could not be more different than their wedding night. Poe smiles at her, and then nods at the bed. “Would you sit?” Rey obliges him, and sits with her ankles neatly crossed, her hands primly set in her lap while she regards him with interest. “Your legs—” He walks forward until his hands are her knees “—must be open.” He kneels, grips her knees, and pushes gently, and Rey lets them open, exposing herself to the air and his gaze. She is so lovely, and he cannot tear his eyes away from the sumptuous feast in front of him.

“I would like to kiss you,” Poe says, and Rey begins to close her legs and lean down, smiling at him. Poe places a finger on her already pursed lips and shakes his head. “Not there, _mi amor,_ ” he tells her. He lets his finger drag along the column of her throat, between her perfect breasts, down her stomach, and then he rests it against the beginning of her dark curls. “Here.”

“That cannot be proper,” she squeaks, her legs almost closing on instinct. Poe gazes up at her steadily from where he kneels, smiling warmly.

“I do not care for proper,” he tells her, his voice darkening from the swell of lust in his stomach. “I only wish to make you – happy.” There are better words for it in Spanish, but he will try to make this as easy as possible for her. “May I, my dove?”

“You may,” Rey answers, her legs spreading open once more.

“Thank you,” Poe breathes, leaning forward until he knows his breath brushes against her core teasingly. Rey’s hand goes to his hair, and she apologizes, but he shakes his head. “You can pull my hair,” he tells her. “I like it.” He blushes at the reason he knows his preference for this roughness, but she does not question it, especially when he leans forward even closer, and licks around her outer lips, tenderly.

He drinks from his wife’s gorgeous entrance as if it were the sweetest wine, taking care to kiss around the bud almost hidden by dark curls. He flattens his tongue at one point, and uses it to thrust inside her body, mimicking what his fingers and eventually cock would do.

“Poe!” His wife writhes under his attentions, and he smiles against her while he continues to suck and lap at her.

“Rey,” he says, teasingly. His finger begins to trace around her entrance, and her fingers tighten in his hair.

“That,” she falls back on the bed and pulls him close to her, and Poe could not have imagined his shy, reserved wife capable of such demands, and he finds that he enjoys it greatly. “Do that, more.”

“Yes, my queen.” Poe briefly leans away, only long enough to pull his nightshirt over his head, and he throws it uncaringly over his shoulder before quickly returning to his wife’s weeping quim. “Rey,” he murmurs against her, his finger catching briefly at her entrance. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says, hands returning to his curls to tug, sharply. “Yes, yes, yes, Poe, please, yes.” His finger slips in easily, and Poe thrusts in and out lazily before returning his mouth to her bud. Rey mewls and her back arches, and Poe smiles in victory when he crooks his finger inside her, rubbing against her upper wall, and Rey screams.

She has rarely spoken to him above a polite conversational tone – sometimes she is induced to enough humor that she laughs loudly and clearly, her answering comments to his joke enough to inspire his own laughter – and her sudden discovery of passion is enough to set his body aflame. Rey screams _his_ name, a shout of “Poe!” as she tenses under his attentions, and Poe leans away fully to wipe his mouth.

“There,” he says, panting slightly. “Did that please you, my queen?”

“Yes.” Rey sits up, and holds her arm across her body shyly. “But you have not yet been pleased?”

“I am very pleased,” Poe corrects her kindly. “Very, very pleased.” It is the truth – his cock throbs, and he believes he is more erect than he has ever been before, but Rey smiles at him and offers him her hand. Poe takes it and stands.

“I should like to –” Rey blushes and averts her eyes. She summons enough strength to say, “I should like for you to be inside of me. Fully. Would you like that as well?”

“I would,” Poe nods, a thousand times, until he thinks his head may fall off from the repetition. “I should like that very much.”

“Alright, then,” Rey begins to lean back on her elbows, her legs opening once more, but Poe shakes his head.

“This will be easier if you sit astride me,” he tells her. It is the truth – he has never broken a maidenhead, but he has been told this helps women with discomfort by several reliable sources.

“Oh.” Rey blushes but smiles. “Like a horse?”

“Like a horse,” Poe nods as solemnly as possible before he moves to sit on the bed. His back propped by the headboard, and he gestures to his lap, arching a brow at his wife. Rey giggles and smiles before climbing onto him. They both groan when the warm wetness brushes against his member. “Can I do that again?” Rey asks, sweetly, her eyes wide with delight.

“Please,” Poe begs, his hands on her hips. “Do that as many times as you would like.”

“Oh,” Rey lifts herself slightly, and pushes up and then down, dragging her center against him. Poe’s head smacks into the frame behind him while he sees stars. “Does that feel good for you, as well?”

“It does,” Poe confirms. “God, anything you do, sunbeam, will feel good for me.”

“It is time?” Rey asks, and Poe nods. It is time, indeed.

“This may hurt,” Poe murmurs apologetically, stroking a hand over her hip.

“I know,” Rey assures him, smiling. She places her hands on his shoulders and lifts herself off of him so he can grab his cock in one hand. Poe uses his other hand to guide her downwards onto him. “I trust you, Poe.”

“ _Te amo_ ,” Poe says in response. “I am sorry, I am sorry,” he chants, lining up with her warm entrance, the head of his cock just barely catching against it, the place where he is now allowed access.

“Don’t be sorry,” Rey laughs. “Just—” she twists her hips slightly, and he groans as he enters her slowly. Rey pauses and looks at him with worry evident in her hazel eyes. “Should I stop? Are you alright?”

“These are the questions I should be asking you,” Poe points out, gripping her hip almost painfully tightly. His other hand comes up to grab her opposite hip. “Take your time, Rey, do what you please.’

Rey nods, a look of extreme concentration on her face as she continues to lower herself downwards at a pace so slow it could be described as painful. There’s a flicker of pain on her face when half of his member has disappeared into her tight, wet heat, and Poe brushes some of her hair out of her face, the strands that have fallen out of her bun. “May I?” He asks, his hand moving to the large pin keeping her hair up. Rey nods, smiling at him, paused in her movement for now. Poe slides the pin out carefully and sets it beside him on the bed. His wife shakes her head slightly, and her thick brown hair cascades around her shoulders, reaching her mid-back. Poe runs his hand through it admiringly before replacing his grip on her waist.

Rey remembers herself, and with a furrowed brow, she leans forward, sliding up briefly, causing both of them to hiss – Poe in pleasure, and Rey, poor dove, most likely in discomfort – and then she takes a large breath and drops her weight down decisively into Poe’s lap. “Gah,” is ripped from Poe’s throat without thought, and Rey’s eyes are wide in surprise. There’s pain there, but also curiosity, and Poe strokes his hand patiently up and down her back, waiting for her to move, no matter how much he may wish to move for both of them.

“Are you well, my love?” Poe murmurs, curling his fingers around her chin, his thumb stroking along her bottom lip. “We can stop, now, if you would like.” And that is the truth; it might physically pain him to stop now, now that his wife’s delicate, hot, perfect _coño_ flutters around him like the wing of a mariposa, but he will stop, immediately, if she is in too much pain.

“ _No pare_ ,” Rey shakes her head, and smiles at him with mischief in her eyes. “ _No pare, se_ _ñor_.”

“Señor?” Poe laughs and then groans when she lifts herself slightly, her face screwed up in concentration. “Is that how you address your king, your husband?” He feels comfortable joking with her in this way; over the last three months, he has been consistent in reminding his wife that she owes him no fear, no deferential language. He knows it is traditional for her to be submissive to him, but he has no interest in controlling his partner in that way.

Rey – what is the word? – _smirks,_ a new and fascinating expression, one of supreme confidence as her hands tighten on his shoulders, and she thrusts down with intense vigor. She rises again and then falls, rocking up and back down, the slide of it almost too much. Poe’s eyes shut involuntarily, and then his wife kisses him, sweetly, not breaking her movement.

He gasps, leaving one hand on her waist and bringing the other up to push her loosened hair out of her face.

“Yes, señor,” Rey teases him after she pulls away quickly. “Yes, I think the king finds it acceptable.”

“He does ,” Poe nods, fervently. “You may call me whatever you wish, mi amor.” Rey kisses him, then, fully and joyfully, and Poe’s hands scrabble over her – to her hair, her small waist, her hip, her buttocks, any inch of skin he is allowed to touch, his hands desperately try to map and memorize. Rey feels like heaven, tastes of starlight – it is too much for him, and his heart overflows with emotion for this perfect woman as she rides him, seeking the best pace.

Poe eventually cannot help himself, and he anchors her by the hips to thrust up at the same time she pushes down.

“Oh.” Rey tenses around him, and Poe immediately wishes for Confession, for a chance to redeem himself, a chance to earn her forgiveness.

“I am sorry,” he whispers, ashamed. “I am sorry, I did not mean to harm you.”

“You did not,” Rey assures him, her hands coming to bury themselves in his hair. “Poe, please do that again, I beg you.” Poe complies, bucking his hips up into hers, and Rey’s thighs tremble around his hips. “Oh,” she sighs. “Oh, Poe.”

Poe thrusts again, and again – he loses himself in her, the pace not terribly fast, but forceful and determined as his wife moans, her face buried in his neck. Poe’s arms wrap around her, easily, she fits so well in his arms, and he feels his orgasm build in his lower back.

“Rey,” he whispers. “Rey, I fear I should –”

“Yes,” she murmurs, not moving her face from his neck. “Yes, Poe, _yes,_ you feel so wonderful, yes, I – I – _te amo,_ Poe, _te amo tambien._ ” And pleasure is all he knows for unbroken moments.

He pants against his wife’s shoulder, and her small hands drift to brush his hair out of his face.

“Did you,” he nuzzles into her collarbone and kisses it sharply. “Do you know the meaning of that phrase, my sunbeam?”

“Perhaps I do not. Could you enlighten me?” Rey asks, teasingly, her fingers pulling through the curls on the back of his head; they are still tangled together, Poe growing soft inside her, and his heart slams in his chest from their intimacy of the previous moment.

“It means I love you,” Poe says. “I love you.” He closes his eyes and breathes in softly, breathes in the smell of his wife, the lingering smell of the garden she works in each day, the smell of tea that never seems to leave her breath, the scent of the earth and the skies, and everything good—

“I know,” Rey leans back so she can look him in the eyes. She smiles at him, fully, and Poe understands that she is no longer hiding from him, and she may never hide from him again – the idea giving him the most potent joy he has ever felt. “I know, Poe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like they should have a tiny prince or princess soon, yeah?


	3. A Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After brigands kidnap the queen consort, Poe tries to deal with his anxiety and rage in the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurt/comfort sex!
> 
> (An anon on tumblr requested a smutty continuation of this AU - and this sort of just...happened).
> 
> [Rey is kidnapped, and lightly wounded, and during her examination, it is implied the doctor asks if she suffered sexual violence. She did not, but the implication is there, and just want to give a fair warning!]

Poe stares at his wife from across the room. He is leaning against the stone wall, the cold of it leaking in through his robes, and his head rocks backwards for a moment, meeting with no resistance as his skull thumps into the solid wall behind him. He took his crown off hours ago when this had started - he hates the idea of its weight now, after…

The doctor is examining his wife carefully, and Rey answers his questions in stumbling, halting Spanish. Poe offers translations when she does not know a phrase, staring at the ceiling blankly, trying not to show any emotional response in front of this stranger who stands in their chambers. The doctor cannot be banished, not yet, cannot be dismissed for Poe to enact his own examination of his sweet sunbeam - not until Poe is  _sure,_ until he is absolutely convinced that no harm came to his wife.

The man asks a question that has Poe choking in rage. He stands upright, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and Rey stares at him in slight shock. The bruise at her temple does nothing to still the anger in his heart, nor does the small cut on her mouth from where those  _bastards,_ those  _monsters_ had -

“Answer the question, paloma,” Poe begs her, forcing his hands to remain at his side. “Did they–”

Rey gives him a confused glance, and then up at the doctor once more. Realization colours her face, and she shakes her head rapidly. “No señor,” she breathes, eyes wide. “No me tocaron…like that.” 

“God help them,” Poe mutters, dragging his hands through his hair and storming to the window. He glares out at the offending countryside and shakes his head, a scowl heavy and unmovable upon his face. “I’d find a way to bring them back and kill them again.”

“Mi rey,” the doctor says, and Poe stiffens before remembering that its his title, and not his wife’s name the doctor says so softly. “¿Un momento?”

Poe turns from the window and nods, passing his wife where she lies on their bed - he glances at her, his eyes heavy and haunted from the exhaustion of the day, and his spirit quakes at her wan and pale face. He steps into the hallway with the doctor, who addresses him quickly and quietly.

“She suffered a fright, my King, and nothing more. I know you worry that she would not tell you if she were truly injured - but she is physically in perfect health.”

“Do not,” Poe snarls, his finger in the doctor’s face, “Tell me she is perfectly fine. Look at her  _face_. The bruises on her arms. Tell me what she suffered today does not matter.”  _See how long you keep your head,_ Poe wants to add, but that is not the kind of man he is, the kind of man his mother and father raised. The doctor pales anyway and holds a hand up.

“She will not have a lasting injury,” the doctor clarifies hastily. “But you should treat her…carefully going forward.” His eyes shift to the side, and Poe almost changes the kind of king he is, right then and there, to run this impertinent man through.

“She is my wife,” Poe says coldly, glaring at him. “I always treat her with care.” He dismisses the doctor and takes a minute in the hallway to compose himself before returning to his chambers.

He discovers his wife weeping.

“What is it?” Poe rushes forward and kneels at the side of the bed, his hands reaching to her imploringly. “Dear God in Heaven, what is it?”

“It is my fault,” Rey sobs, her hand covering her mouth. “I rode without an attendant - you always tell me to bring someone with me, but I did not wish to inconvenience anyone. I didn’t intend to go far, I swear, I just wanted to go for a ride–”

“No,” Poe shakes his head and grabs her hands, pulling himself up slightly to shower the palms, the fingers with kisses. “No, do not blame yourself.”

“I am sorry,” Rey continues to weep, and Poe stares at her in misery from where he half-lies on their bed. “I - I thought that they would kill me, and I should never see you again, and  _Poe,_ I - I-”

“You are alive,” Poe says, tears of his own forming, not for the first time this day. “They are dead. No harm shall ever come to you again.” She reaches for him, and he is hopeless, no matter what he promised himself about proceeding with care, proceeding slowly. Soon his wife is in his arms, and she lies across his chest, still crying softly. 

He kisses her sweet-smelling hair, leaves his lips pressed to her. “When you were discovered missing,” he chokes out, and Rey strokes a hand over his chest - even now, she thinks of him, even in her worst moments, she cares for him. He does not deserve her. “Rey, when they told me you had been taken - it was as though the light had gone out in this world.” 

A boy from the nearest village had sprinted up to the gates, screaming that the queen had been grabbed by highwaymen. Apparently, Rey had stopped to share some of her money with the boy and his family, and not five minutes later, had been taken by ruffians. She’d outridden them for quite some time, the boy had informed Poe, panting, as the soldiers rushed to their horses. “ _But they hit her, Your Majesty.”_ It looked like a planned ambush - and Poe was deeply concerned about the implication of men paid to wait for his wife, men who knew her habits, her independent spirit, and would take advantage of it. 

Poe had discovered them after a hard ride - nearly four hours going out of his mind, riding with his men through the country, following the directions of helpful subjects and the tracks left by the men - and had run them through, personally. Rey had been unconscious when discovered (and he had been pleased to discover that at one point, she’d been lucid enough to attack them, to fight back, and had nearly blinded one of them with nothing but her fingernails), and she hadn’t opened her beautiful eyes until they were almost back to the castle. Even then, she could only form his name before he had shushed her, smoothing the hair out of her face as he cradled her body to his - the doctor had to pull her away from him (a process that had caused the threat of more than one execution).

Now, she is safe, in his,  _their,_ bed, and his heart still feels torn asunder. 

“I will be alright,” Rey assures him, a soft hand reaching up to his face. “Poe, I feel -”

“Please,” Poe says, his hand cupping her cheek while she gazed up at him. “If you value my sanity, do not tell me you are just fine. Please.” Rey nods and presses a kiss into his palm. 

“My King,” Rey whispers, sitting more upright, still leaning into his chest. Her hands slide over him as she tilts her head towards his, and his hands tighten on her waist. “My good, sweet, strong Poe.” She kisses him softly, her fingers scratching at his beard, the one she always teases him for, but claims to love. Her lithe body presses into his, and Poe groans, trying to resist his base urges. “I love you,” she murmurs into his mouth. 

“And I, you,” Poe returns, rubbing his hand along her back, careful of the bruises he knows to be there. “You are everything to me; more than the moon and the stars, the sun and the sky. If I lost you…”

“You did not lose me,” Rey says, one hand tripping down his chest towards his cock, which has unfortunately begun to take interest. “Let me prove it.”

“You do not need to,” Poe assures her, gripping her wrist gently, stopping her from her goal. “Holding you…it is enough.”

“I do not want enough,” Rey says, kissing him again. This time, her tongue runs along the seam of his mouth - a trick he had taught her - and slips in, massaging his own tongue. She pulls away once his breath has quickened, and she looks him in the eyes, her own turned liquid with lust. It shoots straight to his cock, which swells even further. “Not  _enough._ I want everything. I want  _my_ everything - I want you.”

If this were a normal night, he would tease,  _Glutton,_ and kiss her pretty breasts and collect her pretty sighs. But this is not a normal night.

“I do not want to hurt you,” he admits, even as she pushes his robes free of his shoulders, pulls his shirt from his pants. “My queen-” She pauses in her motion at the sob in his voice. He grabs her hand from where it pets at his stomach and kisses it fervently. “I love you.”

“Show me,” Rey says, kneeling on the bed and pulling her simple shift free. She was put in the shift before her examination, and underneath it, her body is wonderfully bare. Poe’s eyes catch on the bruises on her ribcage, dotting her thighs, covering her arms - and of course, the terrible one at her hairline. “No,” she says, catching his own hands after they clench into fists. “No, my love, this is not a tragedy. Our story is  _not_ a tragedy. Touch me.” She places his hands on her stomach, allows him to move on his own terms. “Please, touch me.”

It is such an inversion of their wedding night, a sign of how far they have come in this last year. Poe groans and surrenders one last, sweet, final time, skates his hands over his wife’s body, and allows her to assist him in unclothing him.

“How–” Poe asks, and he looks into his wife’s darkened eyes as she wraps her hand around his cocks and pulls at it expertly. 

“Like this,” she answers, rolling to her back and spreading her legs. Poe loses himself for a moment at the sight of her pretty cunt, framed in dark curls, and then he dives in, licking at her ardently, his fingers quick to open her.

“More,” Rey commands, a complete and total queen tonight, a leg hooking over his shoulder, her foot pushing his back and drawing him in near. She knows what she wants, and Poe is heady with the knowledge that it is  _him. “_ Please, I need –”

“Yes,” Poe gasps, surfacing to crawl up her perfect body. “Yes, of course.”

She is warm, and lovely, and whole, and alive when he slips into her at last. His wife’s legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in, and he showers her face with kisses, her hands pressed to his cheeks, his throat, his back, as she pulls him in deeper, her head throwing back in ecstasy as they find a rhythm in the quiet of their bed chambers. Poe moves more carefully than normal - and he is always careful with his sweet sunbeam - but no less passionately. 

He kisses along her throat, enjoying the beautiful noise of her encouraging cries, her fingers buried in his hair, keeping his lips at her neck as he rocks into her. “Poe,” she cries. 

“My Queen,” he answers, fervent as he mouths along her neck, her shoulder, his hands at her breast, at her bud. He grabs one of her thighs and pushes it back on the bed, creating the perfect angle to thrust into her tight heat, losing himself in her, but not losing sight of the joy that it is to have her, to have her  _here,_ whole and safe in his arms, in his bed. “My Queen, my Rey-”

Tears flow freely from his eyes, something he cannot find shame for, not even as a monarch who should be proud, and firm, and unflappable. 

Rey kisses him through it, her pain echoing as his pain, and in the reverse. “I’m here,” she reminds him, her body lush and comforting while he buries his face in her neck and listens to the lifeline of her words. “I’m here, I’m with you, I’m–”

“I love you,” Poe says, and she takes the words and gives them back to him tenfold, giving and giving until his heart threatens to break from it.

They fall together, a rarity, no matter how satisfying and fulfilling their lovemaking usually is. Tonight, at the end of the worst of all his days, they fall together, with the other’s name on their lips, and in the aftermath, Poe gives his thanks to the universe that brought his sunbeam back to him, the light of his world, his moon and stars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Four: yay or nay?


	4. Ill-Advised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe and Rey experience difficulty in their marriage through no fault of their own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings**  
>  Rey tries to initiate sex while upset
> 
> References to menstruation (and sex during menstruation) 
> 
> Hint of infertility

Poe lounges in his throne and tries to ignore the trickle of sweat gathering at the collar of his robes. He’d normally be wearing much less on such a warm day, unseasonably warm for spring, but he has a formal meetings with foreign diplomats today, and he’s currently discussing matters of state with Lord Wexley, an emissary from England, from where his wife hails.

Speaking of his wife: Rey is clear across the throne room, standing in front of a window and nervously playing with the sleeve of her gown. One of his advisors, a man he loathes but his father appointed, Sir Terex, is deep in discussion with her, and Rey looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. The conversation is probably focused on tonight’s ball, which Rey had expressed hesitance about attending, if only because she frets about her ability to dance.

She is worried about embarrassing _Poe,_ as if Poe did not wish every star in the universe to witness how beautiful and wonderful his wife is, as if he did not wish to send out a daily announcement to every last one of his subjects that his wife, their queen, is a perfect person who deserves every ounce of praise and adoration possible.

He’d showered her with nothing _but_ praise and adoration this morning when they’d woken, and Rey had smiled at him so prettily before sitting astride him and rocking her hips delicously until he’d been compelled to grasp his cock and --

Wexley says something about the current animosity France has been displaying, and Poe looks away from his wife with a sigh, knowing that this needs more attention than the very pleasant recollection of their morning together.

After he and Wexley finish their conversation, he meets with the head architect, who lets him know of a series of changes that will be made to the building while they stay there -- they hadn’t met the deadline to finish, and the man looks highly nervous to tell him this for fear of Poe’s response; but Poe is in no mood to be irritated, not when his wife loves the green of the summer palace’s grounds so much. They had spent last summer there, and Rey had smiled so brightly on their daily walk, admired the flowers so fondly, that he knows she will not mind a few of the wings being closed while they renovate.

There is no need for them to avoid travel to the summer palace, and there is no need for him to lose his temper, so he informs the architect of his intent to stay at the palace regardless; the man looks relieved as he disappears from view at the end of their conversation.

Poe spies Rey up ahead and smiles gently at her; Rey stares out the window, but when she sees him smiling at her, she offers him a thin-lipped, trembling smile in return before her hand covers her mouth. She turns and walks away quickly.

Disturbed, Poe hastens his steps to follow her, but he’s caught by two more advisors who require a conversation on the taxes for the summer, and he cannot follow his wife the way he wishes.

Her eyes are dry at dinner, but no matter how he tries, she doesn’t smile back at him, not past a weak tremor of her lips that suggests she is trying, but is unable to smile back.

For something to say, he clears his throat and informs her of what the architect had let him know.

Well, he tries. Poe only gets the first part out.

“It seems that a number of changes are coming our way.”

“Oh?” Rey’s lips open to form the question, but he barely hears the sound of it.

“Yes. And soon, but, I suppose it’s out of our hands--”

Rey stands, pale and devastated, a hand at her mouth. Poe stands as well, his heart skipping a beat in his chest in sudden fear. “Are you alright, my queen?”

“I am --” Rey nods, tears in her eyes before she covers her mouth with her hand again. “I-- Excuse me, please.”

She turns and almost runs from the room they dine in every night, her gown sweeping out behind her like the tail of some paradisal bird in flight.

“Rey?”

She does not turn, and he hears an answering sob before the door shuts behind her. Poe frowns and examines the table as though it will provide him answers. Rey had been kidnapped only a few months before, and seemed to have taken it in stride (far more skillfully than Poe has, as he still struggles with letting her out of his sight if he can help it), but perhaps this is a lingering response to it? Some grief she hasn’t shared with him?

He won’t push her for information, he decides, calling for a servant to clear the table. He asks them to leave some food aside in case the queen grows hungry later on in the evening, and then he returns, deep in contemplation, to his bed chambers.

To his surprise, Rey waits there, wearing nothing but the sheer nightgown he’d given her as a gift a month prior, thinking she needed something to wear that was as pretty as she was (that was _almost_ as pretty as she was, he corrects, even now as he stares at her in wonderment).

“Rey?” His mind and cock race for control of his body, and he nearly frowns as he tries to decide what is happening.

“Touch me,” Rey begs, holding a hand out. “Please.”

“Of course.” He goes to hold her, to kiss her hair and whisper endearments to her, but she begins to pepper his neck with urgent kisses almost immediately. “Rey?” She makes no answer other than to run her hands along his neck and chest.

He is baffled by this behavior; Rey is far from the nervous girl she was on their wedding night, no stranger to intimacy, but still, this outburst of intense lust is highly uncommon for his quiet wife.

“Touch me,” she whispers in Spanish, and he groans softly before holding her tightly and kissing her as hard as he can.

Poe often holds back in their sexual encounters, relying on gentle touch and soothing kisses for fear of frightening his wife; perhaps she wishes for something more passionate tonight. He is more than happy to oblige her, in that case.

Still, her odd behavior hovers like a cloud in his mind, making it difficult to focus, even as Rey pushes his robes from his shoulder, going to the fastening of his pants without a single word, and Poe has half a mind to pull her to the bed and forgo their typical, slow undressing and buildup, but then he hears it:

A sob.

Rey is crying, her body shaking suddenly when he touches it, and Poe goes from baffled to horrified in an instant.

“Stop,” he whispers, pulling her hands away from his pants. “Mi paloma, stop, I pray you.”

She shakes her head almost pleadingly and goes to take her nightgown off, and Poe grows more frightened.

“ _Rey._ ”

She can’t stop trembling, and her eyes won’t meet his when he leans forward to discern what’s hiding in her mind. Poe touches her elbow delicately, worriedly, and she flinches from the touch. That settles it.

“I won’t lie with you when you’re upset,” he whispers. “I cannot, not unless I know the cause. Could you--”

She cries in earnest then, shaking her head and stammering apologies. Through no small effort, Poe manages to wrap his own dressing gown around her and ease her onto the bed, where he holds her delicately for almost a quarter of an hour until the crying relents enough that she can speak.

“You do not need to tell me,” he begins hesitantly, “But I should like to know why my wife is upset.”

“Y-you--” Rey stops and shakes her head, eyes squeezing shut.

“I hurt you?” Poe asks, regret for an action he isn’t even sure took place already rising in him.

Rey presses her lips together and shakes her head.

“Is this about...when you were taken?” Poe tries to stroke her arm with the backs of his fingers, but Rey jerks her arm away from him. She had insisted the men had not harmed her sexually, but if she acts like this...rage boils in his blood, but dissipitates quickly at her continued anguish. “Mi alma, please, tell me.”

“Y-you already know.” Rey chokes the words out, and when he makes a questioning noise, she sobs and sits upright. “Excuse me. I cannot--” She quickly rises from the bed and almost runs from the room.

Poe jumps to follow her, if only to make sure she is not in any pain, but Rey is quick on her feet, and by the time he regains sight of her, she is disappearing into the suite of rooms he set aside for her when they wed, rooms she has never made use of until this moment.

He is left standing in the hallway, heart sore and hands trembling as he reaches out for someone he loves who is too afraid of him to stay.

***

Rey does not eat the following day at breakfast, and she whispers responses to his questions. Eventually, he stops asking because he can tell it pains her to answer. Poe’s own appetite diminishes in the face of Rey’s unnamed grief, and he excuses himself before she does, leaving to rack his brain on why his wife is suddenly so afraid of him.

She had been fine the morning before, had laughed with him and kissed him and he knows she was truly happy. But now, Rey trembles at the sight of him.

Lunch is the same, and a servant tells him the queen feels ill and wishes to not attend dinner. He nods solemnly, but when the servant leaves him alone with two place settings but only one person, Poe cries, into his hand, cries like he hasn’t since his wife was taken months ago.

The next few days are much the same; Rey makes brief, silent appearances at meals, obliges him when he quietly asks to walk at her side around the ground, and disappears as soon as she can politely do so. Poe is distracted and irritable in meetings, sending the rest of the castle and everyone in it in total disarray. The queen is upset, and so too is everyone else.

The fourth day is the worst: Rey does not show up at breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, and a servant informs him that the queen has taken very ill indeed, and is in her bedchambers with some horrible affliction.

His mind races ahead of him, and Poe runs to her room and begs entrance for almost thirty seconds - distantly he remembers that he is _king,_ he runs this entire _country,_ so why is he so afraid to enter a single room? - until he hears her soft voice bidding him enter.

Poe does so as quietly as he can, opening the door and giving her a moment to change her mind before entering; Rey sits at the window, her long hair unbound and tumbling around her thin shoulders, and her arms are wrapped around her knees. She tries to stand when he enters, but Poe shakes his head,

“Please. Stay seated.”

She does, and he crosses the room to stand before her, a distance of five or six feet away from her trembling form.

“I have been,” he licks his lip nervously, “Worried about you.”

“I apologize.” Her voice is fainter than he can ever recall, even on their nerve-wracking wedding night, when she saw his naked member for the first time.

“Do not--” Poe rests a hand on his forehead and sighs in near-exapseration. “I do not begrudge your illness, mi paloma, only my own ignorance of how I have offended you.”

“You have not--” Rey begins but pales and looks out the window. “...I was told of your plans.”

“My plans?” Poe searches his brain frantically and comes up with nothing. “The renovations on the summer palace? I did not think it would upset --”

Rey laughs harshly, and he startles into silence; it is unlike his wife, unlike anyone, to interrupt him, but he finds he is not angered. Only confused by the agony on her face when she looks away from the moon outside the window and to him.

“Do not play with me,” she cries. “I know what you plan, and I cannot fight it. It - it is your right. I do not _begrudge_ you, I only wish I had not - I had not--” she sobs, and Poe swears he mishears, for it sounds like she ends her impassioned declaration with “ _failed you._ ”

How had Rey have failed him? How could she possibly fail him, when he loves her so intensely, so fully?

“My courses are still happening,” Rey chokes out, hands clapsed to her neck as though afraid he’ll summon an executioner for that statement. Poe blinks in confusion, utterly stultified by her seemingly random declaration -- Rey’s courses passed two weeks ago and are not due for two more. He is not that bad at mathematics.“I - I do not wish to - to - upset you.”

“Has it ever upset me when you were…bleeding?”

He can’t think of a more polite term in English, but they’ve lain together plenty of times while Rey menstruates. He doesn’t...care. He just doesn’t. It’s a part of his wife, he reasons, and it is natural. Why should it bother him, if it causes no harm to her for them to be together during this time of the month?

 _Maybe it does?_ He balks at the thought.

“One of your advisors told me,” Rey whispers, face pink and eyes over-bright.

“I beg you, please tell me what that advisor told you. Because I cannot begin to comprehend what it might be.”

Rey looks utterly disbelieving of that statement.

“He told me of your ….. I have not produced an heir, and I am - of no use to the crown.” Rey casts her gaze down on the rug at his feet, and Poe struggles to keep calm, rage and confusion nearly forcing him to shout in protest.

“Believe me,” Poe murmurs, kneeling so that Rey looks on him and not the floor. She meets his eyes for only a moment before she looks away. “I would never say that, mi paloma. It is simply not true.”

“He told me that you wished to annul the marriage, and would if I did not produce an heir by the end of next spring,” Rey whispers, mortification making her even quieter than normal. “He said you had already arranged a new bride to be sent from Eng--”

Poe tears at his hair and almost shouts in anger, and Rey grows silent, her eyes wide in what must surely be fear. “Who said this to you?” he snarls, and Rey only withdraws further into herself.

He takes a deep, steadying breath. “Please tell me. If a man is spreading falsehoods about me to my wife, if a man is making my wife feel unsafe in her own goddamn kingdom, then I need to know. Please.”

‘You are not upset with me?” Rey whispers, shy and nervous in her question. Poe’s heart shatters for her, for the pain she’s born quietly for days now.

“Of course I am not upset with you.” He shakes his head and stands; he walks to her side and smooths hair from her face, lingering at her delicate cheekbone in a loving caress. “I only wish to know who lied to you in convincing you that I was upset.”

Rey looks doubtful, but she sighs and leans her cheek into his palm. “Sir Terex.”

Poe’s hand tightens into a fist, even as the other continues to cradle Rey’s soft cheek. “I see.”

He pulls away from her and stalks to the door.

“Poe?” Rey is still huddled in the window, looking cold and tired and exhausted - he wishes to hold her, wishes to kiss her and make love to her until she understands that he never wishes to be parted from her, heir or no - but he shakes his head.

“I will be back in less than an hour,” he promises fervently. “I love you, mi paloma. Prepare for bed; I should like to hold you tonight.”

Rey nods and stands shakily, and on his way to his throne, he summons a servant and bids them to assist his wife in any way she needs; then, he sends another to fetch Sir Terex.

It is a violent, cold conversation.

When confronted, Terex first tries to deny any wrongdoing, but when Poe snarls at the implication that his wife had wrongfully named Terex, the man tries to defend himself, shaking but chin held high, defiantly.

“It is for the _kingdom,_ my--”

“This is your kingdom?” Poe asks dangerously, glaring at the man until he sulks into silence. “Your place, to decide what is best for this country?”

“...No.” The man grits the word out, and Poe bristles. Were it a normal sign of disrespect, he would let it go but with a warning; but this has extended past the man and his machinations, and it has hurt the one person Poe refuses to see hurt.

“I have one queen.” He sits in his throne, feet planted, hand gripping his scepter. Terex stands in his nightclothes, barefoot. Poe had not allowed him time to dress. “One queen, Terex. Do you know how many advisors I have?”

“I--”

“Now I have one less.” Poe stands and looks down at him with a sneer. “Get out of this castle. You will be stripped of your title, but you may maintain your estate. Never look upon my wife again, or I’ll feed your eyes to my dogs. Now, get out of my sight.”

Terex leaves as quickly as he can, guards flanking him, and Poe forces himself to sit, face buried in his hands, until his breathing has calmed and he can return to his wife.

She waits for him not in her own chambers, but in his, in _their_ chamber. Poe pulls back the covers and holds her, wrapping his limbs around her and kissing her nose and her cheeks, damp with tears, murmuring to her that he loves her.

When Rey stops crying, she kisses him, soft and tentative, less like the impassioned embrace she had attempted days prior - his heart aches to know the reason for that now, at her attempt to seduce him in an effort to produce an heir.

After Rey whispers that she would like to be nearer to him, Poe lifts her nightgown reverently, but only to the waist, kneeling between her legs and lowering his mouth to her quim. He kisses her thoroughly, happily consuming all his wife can give him, and Rey comes with a gasp of ecstasy.

Poe returns to his task a moment later, after her agitated limbs have settled once more against the blankets, and Rey tugs at his hair anxiously. He looks up, leaving his fingers at her bud, stirring circles that has her shivering deliciously.

“We cannot make an heir that way, my king,” Rey points out out nervously. He shakes his head and lowers his mouth once more, returning to his work, working two fingers into her tight heat, and Rey gasps. “P-poe, that’s not how--”

“Let me finish my feast, mi paloma,” he murmurs against her, and Rey quiets once more until a gasp of pleasure escapes her lips. “If that is your only objection.”

It is, for Rey does not continue to insist that it is improper, and Poe continues to lavish attention on her bud and cunt.

After she has fallen from the greatest of heights twice more, Poe wraps his arms around her -- both of them now bare -- and kisses her temple gently. He strokes the backs of his fingers up and down her arm, and Rey smiles at him before turning fully towards him, resting her forehead on his chest.

“I … I truly am worried that I have not yet produced an heir--”

Poe shushes her tenderly, his lips on the crown of her head. “There is time, my love. There is time. For now, know that I love you, without condition.”

“I love you,” Rey answers, and he closes his eyes contentedly, knowing that they will soon put this entire, unfortunate affair behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Countdown to May the Fourth Entry!!!!
> 
> I hope people are still interested in this universe b/c I think a fifth chapter might be in order


End file.
